The Peeta Thoughts
by MyLifeandHis
Summary: Series of Hunger Games drabbles, mostly in Peeta POV. There will be some Katniss POV as well. And I'm sure things will get dirty. Eventually.
1. Chapter 1

**__Look, I'm not doing anything groundbreaking here. Really, I just keep thinking about Peeta kneading dough in a hot summer kitchen and felt the need to write it down. I'm not sure where this will go or how often, but if you put it on alert, I'm sure I'll come up with some stuff over the next few weeks.**

**PS This is fairly 'canon' but please disregard any discrepancies from the books. It's been awhile since I remembered the exact details. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Peeta<strong>

_Push__. __Pull__. __Stretch__. __Slap__._

_Push__. __Pull__. __Stretch__. __Slap__._

I've been kneading dough my entire life. As soon as my dad realized I could balance on my knees on his wooden stool and see above the kitchen counter, he had me shaping dough into bread and rolls to meet the District's demands.

Kneading isn't hard. Sure, it takes quite a bit of strength in your hands and arms, especially when dealing with the tough ration grain we're given here in Twelve. Right now though, I need something harder than kneading to occupy my thoughts, and I slap the counter in frustration, a cloud of flour poofing around me.

Summer ended today, and it was the first day back to school. The first day is an odd mixture of emotions in the classrooms. Some students are excited and relieved to be done working with their parents for the summer, a few classmates act upset to be back indoors after a summer of lounging outside, and then there's me. Nervous. Anxious to see _her_ again. Katniss.

She's every bit as beautiful as I remembered, which is only fair, since I just saw her wandering the Hob last week. But there's something about summer that makes me feel like she's a million miles away, far in the distance. Unobtainable. Walking the halls of school, I could actually bump into her, end up in the same class, 'mistakenly' sit by her at lunch ... a thrill ripples through my body at the thought.

Katniss.

I sigh and go back to my dough, the muscles of my forearms rippling and flexing with each movement. A drop of sweat begins to fall from my brow, and I catch it just before it falls onto the table.

_Push__. __Pull__. __Stretch__. __Slap__._


	2. Chapter 2

It's her hair. It takes forty-two days of sitting right behind Katniss in the one class we share to realize it. Forty-two days of inhaling greedily the second she falls into her seat as class begins. I don't even know what it is, how to describe it, but today she flips her head back in irritation at something that's been said, and the scent wafts more strongly my way.

Linens? No, cotton. Like how a shirt smells the first time I put it on. Mixed with ... hearthfire. That's it. Maybe she sleeps on the floor? I know several of the poorer families only have one bedroom, which would likely belong to her mother.

Dark, wavy locks fall down her back, glinting with a few remaining bronze streaks from the summer sun, and I try not to picture them cascading across her arm while she sleeps restlessly on a bare wood floor. My hand suddenly has a mind of its own, flexing on my desktop as if to reach out and touch her, but I clench it into a fist and grit my teeth. It's only hair.

Some days, I swear she turns her head to the side and tilts it backward, pausing as if to see if I'm there. If maybe I'll say something to her today. But who am I kidding? She's probably just glancing at the clock, counting the seconds until she can be with Gale again.

I snort softly in disgust at the thought, and Katniss turns her head to the side, cocking it as if she's heard me.

"Fuck," I mumble to myself, as I knock my pen to the floor carelessly.

Hair tumbles down, blocking my view of her face, and Katniss leans over to retrieve the pen, placing it on my desk.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" She looks at me briefly before turning around again, eyes intense.

"No," I whisper. "I mean, I did. But it wasn't to you." Great. Now she probably thinks I talk to myself, have conversations in my head. Or that I'm just some jerk from the rich part of town.

That night, as I toss and turn in my better-than-average bed in my own room, I can't help but wonder where she is, whether she's comfortable. When I finally sleep, dark wavy tendrils flood my dreams with the scent of smoky cotton. Katniss.


	3. Chapter 3

After a long glance through the kitchen doorway, I sneak a spoonful of frosting. It's so sweet, it nearly makes me gag, but I savor every drop anyway.

Being a baker's son seems great to everyone else. In theory, I should wake up to fresh-baked muffins each morning and come home to cookies and pastries every afternoon. In reality however, I grab a stale slice of baguette for breakfast and steal a spoonful of cookie dough or frosting once a month or so.

Our kitchen receives two shipments per week. One is the ration grain and basic necessities for a bakery to operate up to District Twelve standards. The other is a load of supplies to make our share of the baked goods for the Capitol. Juicy, ripe blueberries for muffins, rich chocolate chunks for pain au chocolat, hundred pound bags of caster sugar, blocks of real sweet cream butter ... my mouth waters at the image, and I return to the cake in front of me.

The Capitol knows exactly how much of each item we need to fill our quota, so the measurements we get have been precisely measured, every cup of sugar and teaspoon of vanilla extract accounted for. Occasionally a tart gets too brown, and my dad has to write up a slew of paperwork to account for the loss, but then we get to divide it as a family and eat it. One time-after a long sugarless drought- I screwed up the words on a small layer cake. It was supposed to read "It's Reaping Day!", but I made it say "It's Raping Day!" just so it would be rejected, and we could indulge. I'll never forget the look on my mother's face when she began to pack it away for shipment.

"Peeta! Peeta Mellark! How could you _do _such a thing? You did this on purpose, I bet. Just wait until your father sees what you've done," she said and stormed off. My dad didn't care, though. He just read it and winked at me as he turned to fill out the loss form.

The only other time I deliberately sabotaged food in the kitchen was that rainy day five years ago. Five? Maybe it's six now. The day I burned the bread.

She was so thin. I couldn't stand it. She had sat in school for weeks looking miserable, cheeks drawn and face pale. I couldn't tell at first whether it was the grief of losing her father or something else. But it didn't take very many weeks to realize it. Her family was starving. _She_ was starving. Katniss.

If the girl you loved was hungry, and all you had to do was burn a little bread, wouldn't you? How could I not?


	4. Chapter 4

I sit straight up in bed, panting, and realize my shirt and sheets are drenched in sweat. If there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that everyone my age has nightmares about Reaping Day, but that no one talks about it. Pulling the shirt off and throwing it to the floor, I lean against the wall, grounded by the scratchy realness of the wood.

I want to turn on the lamp but my mom would frown at the waste of electricity, so I lie in the dark, rehashing the dream. There were three tributes-all much larger than me-chasing a small, dark-haired girl. She was a fast runner, but it was obvious they would overtake her soon. I hid behind a tree nearby, fists clenched and muscles tensed, silently urging her on. They gained on her steadily, five feet away, then three, then one ... the largest tribute reached out, grabbing her roughly by the shoulder and throwing her on the ground. Her eyes grew wide, wild but not afraid, and in her last moment of terror, she saw me. In her frantic search for a way out, she found me behind my tree, helplessly watching, while she was about to be killed.

Katniss.

My heart races again as I remember the look on her face-proud to the end but aware that she was going to die. The image is so real, so frightening, that a tear rolls down my cheek unbidden.

The Games aren't for another six months, but they're always in the back of our minds. What will I do if I'm chosen? How will I behave? Sometimes the most bold and daring become weeping babies, crippled by fear, while the tiny and seemingly weak grow defiant and strong. Katniss would make it to the final few, that's for sure. She may be small and female but she's strong and stubborn. Yes, Katniss could easily win the Hunger Games.

Where would that leave me? I'm strong sure, but I have no skills to speak of. Would I be crying, begging for her mercy? Would I become a fierce warrior and kill her first, knowing she was a threat? God willing, we'll never have to find out ...


	5. Chapter 5

It's March, and spring has definitely sprung, or whatever they used to say. Usually here in District Twelve (especially around the Seam), there isn't much color. The skies are gray, grass doesn't grow well, and trees only get a few leaves it seems before they turn colors and fall away again.

But this spring is different. We've had our share of rain, but we've also had several bright cloud-free days, and there's suddenly green grass, flowers and buds sprouting up everywhere. It's amazing how much happier everyone becomes with a little sunshine. My teachers smile, the bakery customers are friendly, and even Mother lets us sneak a few cookies that aren't fully stale yet.

The only thing on my mind right now, however, is Katniss. She's even more beautiful than she was all winter, bundled up in her father's old canvas jacket. Today, her nose is pink from the sun-she was probably hunting after school yesterday afternoon-and she's wearing short sleeves for the first time in months. From my seat behind her in class, I'm mesmerized by her arms. Her elbows are too bony but they're clean and smooth, unlike my own after the long dry winter. When she raises her hand to answer a question, I can see a bit of toned but tiny bicep peek out under her shirt, and I wet my lips, willing away thoughts of what it would be like to see _underneath_her shirt.

I want her. Like, _want_her. I want to feel her skin on my lips and her lips on my skin. But I can't even bring myself to speak to her. What the hell is wrong with me? She turns her head to ask the girl sitting nearby a question, and I stare at her lips, mouthing the words softly. "Do you have a piece of paper?"

Do you have a piece of paper ... five seconds too late, I realize that instead of getting an erection over Katniss saying something so mundane, I could have interjected and actually given her a piece of paper, talked to her, made her see me.

I sigh and adjust myself, trying to focus on the lecture. If you could open my brain, though, all you'd see would be arms and lips and skin … _her_ skin.

**It's Hunger Games Day! I cannot stop thinking about Peeta. I made three loaves of Peeta bread, District 11 crescent rolls, and Mr. Mellark's cookies last night, bundling them in 'parachutes' with quotes from the book and delivered them at 7am to my friends' houses. I'm CRAZY for Peeta. What can I say. *sigh***


End file.
